


Flowers in skulls

by MoraMew



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood Drinking, Death, F/M, Lots of flowers, Nymphs & Dryads, Offering oneself to a god to save others, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, no one dies but they are in the underworld so?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoraMew/pseuds/MoraMew
Summary: "...And his kingdom whispers and his servants gossip, eyes lighting up in awe the first time she laughs and patches of wildflowers bloom around her..."





	Flowers in skulls

**Author's Note:**

> honestly? i don't know. i don't fucking know. i don't even know if nymphs can cause flowers to bloom but guess what- in this crafted, fictional world they can.  
> i woke up this morning with this in my head and i had to write it out. i don't know why but it's here and that's that.

Her blood drips in pearls of lavender, milky and opalescent. When he brings his mouth to her wrist and laves his tongue across, it tastes of honey and wildflowers.  
  
He sucks and she whimpers, lashes fluttering and thighs pressing tighter together, head bowed. It’s pleasant seeing her like that and he breathes a bit heavily against her skin, noses up that delicate skin and over her palm, nips at her fingertips.  
  
Her shoulders tremble and it causes her hair to dance, vines swaying among the strands of gold, flowers brushing against one another. He wonders if it would cause her pain to tug at those thin, green tendrils creeping from her scalp, if it would hurt her to pluck off the blossoms of orange and pink and white.  
  
More than likely. He won’t do so. He may ask for her blood, but he won’t spoil her little garden.  
  
He hums and reaches his free hand to brush through her hair, caress against the petal soft flesh of her heated cheeks. Without seeming to mean to, she presses into his touch and he smiles, pleased by this development.  
  
Such a shy little nymph. Such a nervous little offering, a rare little treat. Her blood tastes so pure and fresh- an untouched delicacy just for him.  
  
What a pleasant surprise to have her offering herself up willingly.  
  
He hums once more and traces his fingers over a delicate jawline, slips them underneath her chin and tips it up. She tilts her head back obediently and keeps her eyes lowered chastely, long lashes dusting over pale skin and cheeks colored with an exquisite blush, lips parted and trembling as she shivers under his attention.  
  
“An acceptable tribute,” he says softly, voice echoing in waves of silver throughout the woods. The creatures stir and flee from his presence while the spirits wait with bated breath, their apprehension palpable as they watch from behind trees and under rocks and in clouds. “And you want this? You are willing to relinquish yourself for the safety of others and become my bride? You must know that you cannot return.”  
  
She can never return. She is _his_ and he will bind her with chains of fire and the charred bones of the forest dwellers if she tries to leave.  
  
He is not a kind god.  
  
The little nymph shakes and her wrist continues to drip with sweet nectar, crystalline tears that reflect rainbows spilling down her cheeks.  
  
A nod shows her consent and his fingers find her cheek, wiping at her tears with a delicate touch even as his claws trace over her easily torn flesh.  
  
“What is your name?” he asks.  
  
Her throat works in a swallow and his eyes follow the movement, drawing half-shut at the desire to sink his fangs into it and mark his claim.  
  
“H-Hitoka,” she whispers to him.  
  
He hums his satisfaction and draws his claws down her cheek, over her jawline and against her neck. He cups it and she shakes, eyes squeezing shut tight as he presses his thumb into her throat.  
  
“Hitoka,” he murmurs, lifting his head high and glancing out to the restless spirits, “I accept your offering. The forest is safe. And you are mine.”  
  
She sobs once and then the earth is torn open and he carries his new bride to the underworld.  


* * *

  
She weeps for days.  
  
Her tears drip without pause, cheeks forever wet and eyes shining with her grief. When they hit the ground, lilies burst forth from the ashen soil, splendid in their snowy white petals. They last only seconds before they wither and fade, dissolve into dust and cinders.  
  
He feels a bit of sorrow for their loss, a touch of sadness when their life is snuffed out. He wonders if they will stay when she is no longer burdened by her sadness, if she will be able to grow a garden in his barren kingdom and bring life to his realm.  
  
That would be nice.  
  
If only she would stop weeping.  
  
He leaves her to cry her sorrow out, refrains from touching her even if it is his every right. He wishes for flowers to blossom in his realm and for color to be added to his dull hued world; he will not add to her torment.  
  
He does his best to try to raise her from her melancholy. He has his servants collect morning dew for her to drink, fruits from the groves of wary but submissive spirits for her to eat. She refuses them, though, and begins to fade, blossoms in her hair wilting and the warm glow from her skin waning.  
  
It begins to anger him, this lasting remorse. He allows her to wander his kingdom and offers her delicacies from the living world but she still does not eat, she still does not drink. She will not even speak, her lips forever shut and trembling.  
  
His patience begins to wear thin. He is being kind- even if it is not his nature- and she is grating at it, her despair not lifting an inch.  
  
In a last ditch effort, he brings her two gifts- a crow with the aptitude of speech for companionship and a miniature sun that he has molded from lava and starlight and scorched earth for light that she must need.  
  
Her tears do not pause but she looks in wonder as he hangs the sun over her head, eyes wide as the crow flutters to rest on her shoulder.  
  
She trembles and her breath comes in a shake but she swallows and looks up at him, uncertainty on her face before she remembers herself and bows her head, looks to the ground.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispers.  
  
He smiles and the lilies stay a few moments longer before withering.  


* * *

  
Slowly, she begins to accept her new lot in life. It begins with her drinking the dew and honey that he offers her, works up to nibbling on the berries and fruit he presents. Her tears begin to drip with less persistence and the lilies begin to stay after they sprout from his infertile soil.  
  
She is powerful. She could be a goddess given the right circumstances.  
  
His kingdom stirs with some sort of excitement at the lasting flowers, the servants becoming distracted by the scattered little patches of white that brighten the grey and red and black of their world. He does not admonish them; their curiosity is justified.  
  
“How giddy they become from something so simple,” Tendou drawls in his ear, feathers whispering as he shakes droplets of blood from them. “We haven’t had such excitement in centuries.”  
  
And he is right. The servants whisper to one another, the spirits gossip when they believe they can get away with it. There are gasps that sound when she is spotted wandering the realm, points of fingers to the flowers that trail after her and the crow that rests on her shoulder, the sun that causes her blossoms to dance in her hair. It causes her panic, the attention given to her, and he can feel her heart flutter and tremble even from leagues away.  
  
So nervous, this nymph of his. So shy and uncertain and timid. Her heart beats so fast at times he wonders over it bursting. But it stays intact, a quiet, quick drumming in his ears.  
  
A beautiful sound.  
  
Her nerves lessen as her grief begins to lift and her heartbeat starts to become a more even rhythm, a steady echo that thrums in the back of his mind. It flares on occasion and always triples in its pounding when he draws near, fearful and edged in dread.  
  
It makes him frown. He has not done a thing to hurt her.  
  
Tendou asks why he does not take her but Semi shows his approval of his patience by offering ideas of how to calm her, how to make her endeared to her new home. There is not much that could appeal to one of the forest in the underworld, but there are a few things that he can show her.  
  
“Come,” he tells her one evening, “I have something to show you.”  
  
There is hesitation in her bones but she nods, gaze cast to the ground and footsteps soft as she follows after him.  
  
She does not look at him. She fears wrath and punishment if her eyes fall onto a god even if she is a waiting bride, a companion to be at his side.  
  
It is almost endearing, in some small way, how she forgets her new place. Has she seen other deities and their lovers? Has she seen only bowed heads and submissive postures? Or has he just not earned her bravery, her confidence as his mate?  
  
He ponders it as he leads her through the land, listens to the soft chittering of the crow flying around the sun above her and the whispering of lilies growing at her feet.  
  
A short journey and they arrive at the cave, guards snapping to attention as they draw near. He passes by them without a second glance but he feels her hesitate behind him, surely unnerved by clawed feet and spears of fire, waists decorated with skulls of fallen trespassers. He pauses and looks back to her, beckons her forward with a wave of his hand.  
  
She hurries to him, brightening the passage of the cave with her sun.  
  
They must stop at the carved doors and he turns to her with indecisiveness, not wanting to bother or upset her. The cavern will be too brightly lit, though, with the sun hanging above her, will chase away what he wishes to show.  
  
“Your sun,” he tells her, perhaps a trace of reluctance in his voice, “I need to…”  
  
Her brow furrows though her gaze stays on the ground and he hesitates, looks to the side to find gold glinting in thick veins of the cave. An idea springs forth and he steps over to it, rips a hunk of it out from the wall and reaches up above to break off a stalactite of rubies. He crooks his finger to her and she steps forward, eyes hovering at his feet.  
  
“What I am about to show you,” he explains as his hands work gold and jewels together, “requires dark. Your sun is too bright.”  
  
“I will not get rid of it,” he adds hastily when upset ripples across her face. “I am merely...adjusting it.”  
  
Bewilderment now, her brows scrunching together and her lips curling down in confusion. He finishes the tiara for her and then eyes her face, the lingering tears dripping almost absently from her lashes. A thought strikes him and he reaches out, brushes his fingers over those wet little droplets.  
  
They turn into diamonds and he fixes those onto her tiara as well, embeds them in the golden peaks that he raises with ease.  
  
They are her last tears and they shine beautifully in the fire of her sun.  
  
And now she looks mystified, her eyes darting up without thought to take in what he has made for her, flicking down to the floor when she realizes that she is viewing him. He holds back a sigh and reaches above her, grabs her sun and splits it into smaller pieces, fixes them to float over the peaks of her tiara.  
  
She blinks when he places it onto her head, a hand raising to touch at it with trembling fingertips when his withdraws. The flowers in her hair rustle and stir, swaying almost pensively as she runs her fingers over gold and rubies and diamonds. There is a moment of quiet and then a whisper of petals, buds of peonies entwining through the tiara and blossoming into life.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispers to him, her hands clasping together in front of her chest.  
  
He smiles faintly and turns to the door, tries not to show too much pleasure.  
  
“The suns can be retracted and brought forth at your command,” he informs her. “I ask you to hide them before I take you into the room.”  
  
A few seconds of uncertainty but then the light dies and they are left in near darkness, the golden glow illuminating her flesh gently parting the black of the cave’s passage. He steps toward her and offers his arm, takes satisfaction in her cautious acceptance, the nervous lay of fingers to the crook of his elbow.  
  
He raises his hand and the doors open for them silently, allowing the singing of stars to ring forth. She gasps beside him and he smiles, leads her into the chamber.  
  
There is something near a whimper that leaves her when their feet touch grass.  
  
She clings to him at that, fingers digging into his arm and confusion making her turn her head this way and that. He allows her to look around, relishes the touch of her warm hand to him as she peers at trees and stars and grazing animals.  
  
“I-I don’t understand,” she whispers, pressing against without thinking. “I- there’s- I thought-”  
  
He hums and touches his hand to hers, strokes over her delicate fingers before gathering it up and squeezing it gently. In her bewilderment, she allows their fingers to entwine and he smiles, begins leading her to a dark pond.  
  
“The essence of things long dead,” he tells her in way of explanation. “Once life is snuffed out, it is passed onto me. Animals, plants, and even the stars are brought into my possession. This is where I gather them.”  
  
“B-But why just here?” she asks him, her astonishment making her forget her fear. “Why...why not the whole realm?”  
  
“Because they are _mine_ ,” he says, voice nearly dipping into a growl. She shakes beside him and he takes a breath, reclaims his composure. “The essence of life is a powerful thing. If someone were to slip in and steal it, they could make themselves immortal or wreck havoc. Any single thing in here could upset the balance of life and death if one were to consume it. They are mine to watch over and keep safe. I must not let others have it.”  
  
He points a finger over to a patch of flowers a few yards away in an attempt to distract her, nudge the mood back into something more pleasant.  
  
“Do you see your lilies?” he asks her. “They are all gathered here.”  
  
A soft noise leaves her and she begins to walk toward them, pulling him along with their fingers still laced. When she reaches the edge of the flower bed, her head tilts and she blinks, a small frown on her face.  
  
“They’re black,” she comments, both curiosity and confusion in her voice.  
  
“Because they are shades of what they once were,” he explains to her.  
  
Her brow furrows but then she nods, head tilting back to look at the stars above.  
  
“I haven’t seen stars in so long,” she whispers. Her voice is choked and threatens tears but her cheeks remain dry, only a sniffle sounding. “They are so beautiful.”  
  
They are and she is as well. His beautiful companion, lit up by starlight and weighed down by melancholy, is so very beautiful. He wishes that she would smile, even for a moment.  
  
“You may come here as you like,” he tells her, watching tendrils drop from her hair and bloom with deep violet. “I will allow you to visit at your pleasure.”  
  
She blinks and the geraniums drop, forced away by the freesia that burst forth into yellowed trumpets. A few feet away, ashen bushes sprout and up above the stars shimmer as another is added to his collection.  
  
He only barely realizes those mundane events, takes more notice in the way corners of her lips curl up ever so slightly, the way a faint smile appears on her face.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispers to him, her hand gripping his. “I...thank you.”  
  
He smiles and they watch the stars shift and dance into varying constellations up above.  


* * *

  
She is more calm after that. The nervous beating of her heart finally rests into an even rhythm and she begins to not shy so far away from him. She begins to join him for breakfast and then lunch, dinner and dessert.  
  
It takes time but then she begins to accompany him on walks, places her hand into the crook of his elbow as he shows her all that is his. She is fascinated by the silvered lakes and his three headed dogs, terrified by the waterfall of blood that felled warriors rest under. The snakes that hold his court concern her and she is saddened by the children’s meadow but she seems eased by their smiles, with how those young spirits dance around them as they walk.  
  
He shows her everything and they talk quietly with vasts silences between them, stretches of time that slowly become less uncomfortable and more relaxed as they get used to one another.  
  
And his kingdom whispers and his servants gossip, eyes lighting up in awe the first time she laughs and patches of wildflowers bloom around her.  
  
She is special, they whisper to each other.  
  
She is beautiful, they murmur in agreement.  
  
But when will he make her a proper queen? they ask one another.  
  
Soon, he wants to tell them. Soon.  
  
He could force her, he knows. He could trick or threaten her into it, complete the binding with assault.  
  
But he does not want that for his little nymph, his queen to be. She is just now smiling and it brightens his world with a warmth he has never felt before. He does not want to lose it; he does not want her wasting away in melancholy again.  
  
He is getting soft, some cluck to themselves, to others.  
  
Perhaps. But he still prefers to wait until she is ready, takes pleasure in the meantime in the way she wanders his realm, scattering flowers in her wake and chatting with her crow, her lips flickering into little smiles and her laughs causing honeysuckles to grow in the ribs of skeletons.  
  
She is life in his dark world- true life- and he is weak to her glorious presence.  
  
“That pretty little rose is ripe for plucking,” Tendou tells him after supper one evening. “When will we have our queen?”  
  
He doesn’t spare a glance to the scarlet haired immortal and keeps his eyes on her instead, watches as she dances among will-o’-wisps; her hair shining in their light and daffodils shooting into life as she giggles and sings, her face flushed from reveling and the goblets of pomegranate wine they had shared.  
  
She is so beautiful.  
  
He wishes to have her.  
  
He sends Tendou away with an impatient flap of his hand and calls to her, his little nymph, beckons her to him. She pauses in her dancing and nearly stumbles to her knees, a quiet laugh leaving her as she looks over to him. It takes a moment or so but her eyes lower in deference and he frowns as she walks over to him with her gaze to the ground. She stops at where he is seated and he reaches to her, traces over a still flushed cheek and cups it with his hand.  
  
“Look at me,” he orders, voice firm but soft.  
  
She breathes in deep and she trembles but she presses into his touch and raises her eyes slowly, lets him see them wide and bright and nervous with sparkles of something like anticipation in a sea of amber.  
  
That is better. That is so much better.  
  
“I want you to look at me from now on,” he tells her. Another deep breath and she shivers as his thumb moves over the heated flesh of her cheek. “You are by my side, not below me.”  
  
Her throat moves in a swallow and he traces the movement with his gaze, allows his eyes to dip lower to the sheer silk of her robe, the pale pink nipples that hide beneath. The beating of her heart picks up but she does not pull from him, she does not try to flee.  
  
A good sign.  
  
“You are happier,” he comments, voice low as his eyes raise to her face once more. “You have come to enjoy yourself here.”  
  
She startles at that, as if she had not realized her smiles and her laugher, and she blinks, lips parting in surprise.  
  
“I...yes?” she whispers, voice uncertain, eyes concerned and growing conflicted. “I...I-I suppose I have.”  
  
“My realm is brighter with you,” he tells her, thumbing across her smooth cheek and then sliding his palm across her jawline. “My servants adore you. The spirits are enamored by your presence.”  
  
She blinks and there is a beautiful blush that unfurls across her cheeks, a shy pink that darkens to a nearly embarrassed crimson. He moves to press his thumb to full lips, drags the digit across with care.  
  
“They ask when you will be queen,” he says softly, the words tinted with his own desire for it to be so. “They ask when you will rule by my side.”  
  
An inhale, shaking and sharp, at the words. She trembles and her eyes widen, her heart speeds up its frantic beating.  
  
“I...I…”  
  
She is scared and she trails off, her hands twisting the fabric of her robes. Impatience whips through him but he sighs and traces over her lips again, reluctantly pulls his hand away.  
  
“It can wait until you are ready,” he tells her.  
  
She stays for a moment and then she flits away, holding her robe’s skirt up as she runs toward his cave of starlight, the soles of her feet covered in ash.  
  
He lets her. He waits.  


* * *

  
She becomes shy again after that, hiding from his sight and spending her time nervously weaving crowns of oleander and anemone. She gives them to the spirits of children that run to her when they spot her in her wandering and places them on the heads of servants that she passes by.  
  
He does not receive one and there is a flicker of jealousy that rests in his stomach when he spots others donning her anxiously crafted wreaths.  
  
He waits, though, and he allows it, gives her the space she so clearly desires even if he aches to be in her presence.  
  
One day, two days, three days, four.  
  
On the fifth day of waiting, Tendou struts past him wearing a crown of evening primroses. On the sixth day of waiting, Semi smiles guilty as he bears one of cattails and ivy, blue violets weaved throughout.  
  
He scowls that night and sends everyone away, tries to calm the envy flaring in his veins.  
  
The seventh day, the end of a week.  
  
She returns to him.  
  
With nervous eyes and trembling lips, her fingers clutching a crown so tight her knuckles are whitened, she returns.  
  
He does not say a word as she walks to him, watches her slow, apprehensive journey with patience and listens to her fluttering heart intently.  
  
“My king,” she whispers to him, holding up the crown. Her eyes do not drop to the ground and she steps forward even as her hands shake. “My god.”  
  
He bows his head for her and she places the crown to him, bestows a gift of ambrosia and daisies, ivy and roses of red.  
  
“My husband,” she murmurs, voice trembling and heart beating so fast and loud it blocks out the excited whispers of his realm.  
  
He lifts his head and stands, offers his hand to her. She accepts, fingertips shivering as they brush over his palm, and he leads her to his chambers, finally has her laid onto his bed.  
  
He does not hesitate in raising a dagger to his wrist and cutting a vein. He is careful with it, though, controlled as she looks at the blade in concern.  
  
Her blood is lavender, his is black.  
  
He holds his wrist out to her and she shudders at the oozing of midnight, the steam swirling from his torn flesh. For a moment he fears her fleeing but then she shakily reaches for him, draws his wound to her lips and drinks his blood.  
  
It is an odd sensation, the way she runs her tongue over the jagged edges of his skin and sucks against the gash. Odd but enjoyable, made more so by the whimper that dances over his wrist and the haze that darkens her eyes.  
  
The flowers in her hair turn to roses of red and she breathes ragged when he takes his wrist away, her lips stained ebony with his blood.  
  
“You are my queen,” he tells her, voice rough, passion igniting.  
  
She nods, dazed and dizzy, and reaches for him, one quiet moan slipping from parted lips.  
  
“Ushijima,” she whispers, she calls. “My husband, my king, my god.”  
  
And there is no holding back now, no waiting and no patience left.  
  
He dips down to her and presses their lips together, slides his tongue along the slick of his blood and into her mouth. She tastes of honeysuckle and elderflower, love and death.  
  
She tastes like paradise.  
  
His hands find her hips and then her breasts, mouth smoothing over the column of her throat to scrape his teeth over a clavicle, bite a bruise into tender skin. She whimpers but presses against him, her hands reaching to fist into his hair.  
  
He is hungry for her and he thinks she must be aching for him by the way she whines and arches her back up, mewls at the attention he gives to her small, perfect breasts.  
  
He wants to be patient, he wants to draw it out and devote his focus to learning each inch of her body. But he has waited for so long and she is so beautiful.  
  
He rips her robe from her and throws it to the side, moving his mouth to trace down to her navel and stick his tongue inside, teases as his hands grip bruises onto her waist and as she writhes.  
  
“Please, _please_ ,” she begs through gasps and frustrated pants. “I beg of you, my husband, _please_.”  
  
And he cannot deny her- his queen, his nymph, his wife.  
  
He draws his lips lower and spreads her thighs wide, ducks his head to her glistening core.  
  
There are no words to describe her taste. Heady perfection, an ambrosia of so very many flowers drenched in the finest of honeys and the most decadent of creams. She tastes of life and beauty and all that is sacred and desired, all that is pure.  
  
She tastes of ecstasy.  
  
He is throbbing for her, hard and nearly desperate. And she is pleading for him, her back arching and her hands tugging at his hair. He cannot pull away from her, though, and he runs his tongue over her soaked mound, buries it within her until she is shaking and her nectar is spilling into his mouth and running down chin, dripping onto silk sheets.  
  
It is only then he can rise from her, drunk on her taste and covered in her juices. There are so many roses in her hair, so many petals scattered over his bed. She is a vision laying among them, wanting and glowing and reaching to pull him to her.  
  
His blood is still on her lips when they kiss again and he shudders as he cups her cheek, runs a hand to slip fingers within her.  
  
So warm, so wet, so perfect. He is blessed by her desire.  
  
It takes only moments to tear his robe from himself but she still whimpers as if she is distressed when he is not touching her. She moans when his hands find her again, parts her legs for him and loops her arms around his neck.  
  
A kiss, a whisper of devotion, and then he eases into her, fills her to the hilt.  
  
A sob erupts from her stained lips. He pulls back in alarm but she shakes her head, nails digging into his shoulders as she presses him close again.  
  
“Please,” she whispers. “ _Please_.”  
  
He obeys.  
  
His hips rock and he eases in deep, pulls out half-way. She whines when he rolls his hips to fill her completely again, mewls when he dips his head to nip along her jawline, press his lips to her heated cheeks. He is slow and patient, cautious as he takes her, but then gets lost in the moans she lets slip from her, the way her legs wrap around his waist.  
  
He gathers her into his arms and her head tilts back, her throat offered to him as he hurries in his pace.  
  
Blessed being.  
  
His fangs sink into the soft flesh that is presented, his teeth marking her as his hips snap and she squeezes around him, whimpering and starting to tremble. She is so receptive and so wanting, her nails sliding down his back and her hips grinding to meet his. There’s no slowing down the pleasure that rises and he growls against her neck, moves his lips to hers so he may greedily taste the edges of her teeth, the roof of her mouth.  
  
Faster than he wants, rougher than he wants. She still cries out in pleasure, though, and there is a rumbling that fills the air when she begins to clench down tight and chant his name in a need drenched litany. He shifts his angle and she claws into his back, keening as her hips tighten and churn.  
  
When she comes, red roses burst through the tile of his floor and ceramic flies in shattered shards as she shakes and blossoms and blooms beneath him.  
  
He follows after her and a blaze of fire rips through his veins and scorches the ceiling of his domain.  
  
He collapses onto her and she pants against him, burying her head into his chest when he rolls them to their sides.  
  
“My queen, my queen, my queen,” he whispers to her hoarsely, devoted as he showers her temple and her hair with kisses.  
  
She shivers and presses to him, her breathing uneven and her eyes dazed from pleasure. It takes a moment, but then she calms a bit, tilts her head to look at him.  
  
“Will...will that always happen when we are together?” she asks him, words holding a shy tease as she reaches a trembling hand up to gesture at the scorch marks on the ceiling.  
  
He huffs a bit of laughter and twists until he can reach a rose, plucks it and then places it in her hair with the rest. In the aftermath of pleasure, he can be relaxed and joyous, smiling as he traces over her flushed cheek.  
  
“One can only hope,” he tells her. She smiles and it’s sweet and bright, full of the joy that he has spent centuries trying to find. He leans to her and presses a kiss to her swollen lips, tastes once more his blood and her honeyed nectar. “You are my queen now. This land is yours.”  
  
And there is pleasure in the curl of her lips now, the way her lashes flutter and her lips find his.  
  
“Yes,” she murmurs to him, hands reaching to lace their fingers together. “I am your queen.”  
  
A smile, a kiss, a shared sigh of pleasure.  
  
Outside the room, a meadow of wildflowers bloom through the ribs of fallen beasts, the grins of skulls.

**Author's Note:**

> i realized i only actually typed out Yachi's name twice and Ushijima's once but oh well~  
> i just needed to get this out of my brain.
> 
> Come say hi and hello on [my tumblr](https://moramew.tumblr.com/)~


End file.
